One Last Miracle
by Princess Shania
Summary: AU. John wakes from a dream, in which he was reunited with his best friend. What he doesn't expect is for this dream to come true, bringing all kinds of consequences with it...R&R!
1. Return

******So, in this fic, the entirety of S03 is a dream John had. Don't like, don't read!**

* * *

He was dead. Sherlock was undoubtedly, completely, for all intents and purposes, dead. He couldn't possibly have survived the fall, genius though he was. Was. He hated using that word for Sherlock, but really, what else could he do? He couldn't start pretending that evrything was different, that the dream had been...well, _real_.

Sleep had started off the same. Then a familiar face had appeared, familiar voice, familiar everything and suddenly... he had been there. There was no denying the fact the Sherlock Holmes had been right there, just _back_. He wanted Sherlock back. he _did_, and that was what made the end of the dream so inexplicably, weirdly _horrible_.

Mary shooting Sherlock. Sherlock nearly dying (again). Him _forgiving_ her? What the hell had that been about? Just what the hell was his subconcious trying to tell him?

_Nothing, of course, John. Dreams are little more than a film playing inside our heads to make sleep a less tedious chore. _That's what Sherlock would say. Or something like that. John never knew quite what to expect with his best friend.

John sighed and swung his legs out of his bed. He was sleeping alone. Things with Mary weren't bad, but they were friends. Good friends, nothing more. She had been a saint these past few years. He had, in truth, been thinking of asking her out, but the dream left him weary. Though, this was stupid. Sherlock was dead. He was not coming back.

Tiredly making his way to the kitchen, he looked over the clean counters with a feeling of sorrow. They shouldn't be empty. They should be cluttered with bottles of brightly coloured, bubbling liquids, or be hosting a series of scattered papers. They should have a curly, dark-haired head lying on top of one of them, its owner catching a few winks of sleep. They should be in Baker Street.  
But, instead, he was in a small flat, miles from Baker Street, trying to get on with his life without Sherlock.

And he was failing miserably.

* * *

The sound of the letterbox interrupted his thoughts as he sat, curled up in his chair, though it being new-ish didn't feel like his, tapping on his keyboard, trying to find something fresh to put on his blog.

_Got up. Missed Sherlock. Drank own weight in tea._

Of course, he went to work, but that was what Sherlock would probably call dull. Work gave him focus, so at least there was that.

Bills, takeaway pamphlets, chain mail, a postcard...

Wait.

A postcard?

He didn't know anyone abroad. he glanced at the picture. A multi-coloured sky, all golds, pinks, and purples illuminated a well-captured shot of a dolphin, it's silhouette above a sea of deep indigo. All very nice, but who the hell sent it?

_I'm coming, John._

Not handwriting. The message was made up of letters from newspaper headlines. Perfectly neat. Whoever sent this clearly cared for presentation. But who? And why?

Feeling spooked, John hid the postcard behind a framed photo he had of Harry when she'd been a kid. His heart was hammering and he took several deep breaths, though this did little to quell his anxiety.

Over the next few weeks, the postcards kept they had more calming messages, such as; _Hold on. It's all fine. I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

Just what was the apology for? He feared for a short while it was Moriarty, apologising for the things he'd done, though he knew for a fact the man was dead and wouldn't apologise even if he was still living. Then another card came. _You're not in danger. JM is gone._

Well, that was something. Whoever it was, at least they weren't dangerous. Perhaps it was Mycroft? No, he wouldn't bother himself. Lestrade? No, the DI had taken it upon himself to visit often. Molly? No, they saw each other frequently too. _ Not_ Anderson or Donovan. Mrs. Hudson? It could be a possibility, but if it didn't seem something she would do. She would handwrite,add little kisses, she would not make a whole mystery out of this. Mysteries were more Sherlock's area.

And it was definitely not him.

* * *

The thing that awoke John the next morning was not the letterbox clanging, or the ratty little Chihuahua next door barking. It was the distinct sound of footsteps in the living room. Then the _ tap-tap _ of expensive shoes walking on the faux-marble tile as the owner explored the kitchen. Then a _flick! _ and distorted hissing sound as the kettle was flicked on.

He would say Lestrade, who had been given a key, but the shoes he could tell by hearing were expensive. He'd then guess Mycroft, but the elder Holmes was about as likely to make tea as Donovan was likely to regret what she did to Sherlock.

Who the fresh hell?

Tying his dressing gown around his waist and sliding his pistol into its deep pocket, he cautiously padded to the very threshold of the area the unexpected visitor was currently hanging about in.

"Who is it?" John called, two fingers on the weapon. God, he hoped this didn't end in death. He'd had too much of it these past years.

No answer. Well, bugger. Now holding the gun, he stepped into the room, holding it in front of himself. He didn't expect to see who he saw.

"John, do put that thing away. I didn't cheat death just to get shot, you know."

* * *

******I have no regrets writing this. That is all.**

**Love from Shania. xx**


	2. Explanations

That...that...he..no. Absolutely not. There was no way. Nope. He blinked, maybe this image would go away, but no, there it stayed as though it was real. But it couldn't be. It just couldn't.  
He took a cup off the mug-tree and slammed it down, hoping the noise would clear his mind. Nope, bloody thing was still there.

"John...?"

"Don't!" John yelped without meaning to. Why he felt the need to tell this mirage to stop, he didn't know.

"John." Now the hallucination was gently prodding his shoulder.

"Stop it." Perhaps the tea would help him become sane.

"John it's me." 'Sherlock' said loudly.

John started humming. He was going to see his therapist. Soon. Hallucinations wouldn't do. He lazily swiped at the air, only to find his hand connecting rather loudly against soft, black material. Familiar soft, black material. Pale, ever-changing eyes connected with his and he felt his heart rate spike. It was so real...

"John, I am real."

"No. No, you're dead. You're _dead_, you can't be here!"

This didn't make sense. It wasn't possible and he said so. Sherlock was looking curiously at him now.

"How did you get in here?!" Stupid question. He had an idea of how, but somehow it was that one which got voiced.

* * *

John was upset. Hand trembling, running non-shaking hand over face and rubbing eyes, knees were trembling...why was he upset? Didn't he want to see him?

"Have you," John's voice was quiet, strained. This was not good. "Any idea of the hell I went through these past years?"

"I'm sorry.."

John cut him off with a disbelieving laugh.

"I am." Sherlock defended. "It wasn't a thing I wanted you to endure."

"I still had to endure it!" John snapped. "And what were you doing?"

"Moriarty's legacy needed dismantling."

At Moriarty's mention, John felt the frustration - well, some of it anyway- drain out of his body. "Moriarty's dead."

"I know. Just so you're aware, it wasn't me who killed him."

"I believe you."

Sherlock cleared his throat and went on, determined to explain to John just what happened that day. "He had snipers trained on the three people I have anything resembling friendship with. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade-"

"Lestrade?"

"He's not my enemy, so I suppose Moriarty thought he would do."

"Who was the third?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to sigh at his friend's question. "You, obviously. Anyway, it was either jump and have you live, or not jump and have you all die."

"How did you survive?"

Ah, there was the question he'd been longing to hear.

* * *

It had been an interesting day. After Sherlock had explained to John his ability to jump off a huge building and come out of it unscathed, the doctor gave his shoulder a punch for all the worry he'd caused and Sherlock, seeing that John was still upset with him, made tea. Actually, the word for that day was 'odd'. Very, very odd.

"I'm still pissed off with you."

Sherlock nodded sagely over his mug. "I know."

"Are you going back to Baker Street?"

"Oh, yes. Couldn't live anywhere else." He glanced around the flat and then his verdigris eyes fell back on John. Wanting explanation.

"I found it hard to stay there. Too many memories."

"You're coming back, aren't you?"

"To Baker Street?"

"Yes. Back home."

The thought of moving back to Baker Street had never crossed John's mind. But now that Sherlock was back- though would it be a good idea?

"You miss it."

He did. He missed all of it, even though the various body parts in the fridge weren't exactly welcome. It wouldn't be difficult. He only had clothes, hair product, his pistol, that sort of thing. But could he handle losing Sherlock if this sort of thing happened again? He almost cursed out loud when he looked into those silvery-blue eyes, their owner wearing a pleading expression. Just how Sherlock kept on managing to rope him into things by facial expressions alone was a mystery to the doctor.


	3. Further Explanations

The strings of the violin sang softly as the bow slowly danced on them. John watched with tired eyes as Sherlock stood by the window, eyes almost shut as he played the song. He had, inadvertenently, missed this perhaps most of all. The midnight concerts, alerting him that the world's only consulting detective was there. In the past, he had been annoyed, waking up to what had seemed like screechy tunes yowling out of cursed wood, but now it was the most divine sound an instrument had ever produced. One he was more than glad to hear. Sherlock finished his song with practised precision and placed it back in its box. Turning around, he blinked in surprise to see John watching him.

"How long have you been there?"

"'Bout an hour."

"Usually you would be telling me to put the effing thing away before you jammed it somewhere."

John smiled. "A lot's changed since then."

"Yes." Sherlock strolled over to his chair, tumbling down on it with the air of someone who was exhausted, though John could tell by the man's eyes that such was not the case. Sherlock Holmes was seldom exhausted.

"Sherlock, is Moriarty's entire network.." John placed his hands together and then pulled them apart, "gone? All of it?"

"Nothing for you to worry about."

"So, that's a yes?"

"Mycroft is visiting tomorrow," Sherlock's eyes fell on the clock, and he shook his head, "no, he'll be visiting in eight hours and 28 minutes. You should rest."

And with that, he disappeared up to his room, leaving John wondering what his best friend had meant.

* * *

He did feel better now that he'd had a few hours sleep and found that there was nothing in the bath that shouldn't have been there. Sherlock was pointedly ignoring him every time John asked him about the nature of Mycroft's soon-to-be arrival. John decided he could wait and placed a mug down by Sherlock, reasoning that perhaps Mycroft could tell him. Hopefully. He placed two pieces of bread in the toaster and gazed out of the window as he waited for them to pop up. The sky was a lovely shade of blue, but he could see little dark clouds far away. He frowned. He genuinely hoped there would be no storm coming.

The sound of the toaster violently trying to eject the now golden toast brought John out of his thoughts. He absent-mindedly looked in the cupboard, not expecting to find anything, only to be pleasantly surprised by the dioscovery of jam. Blackberry jam too. He slathered both and split them, placing one piece on one plate and keeping the other on the breadboard.

"I'm not hungry, thank you."

"You left me alone for two years. The least you could do is eat the toast I brought you."

Sherlock sighed, giving the plate an especially poisonous look, but began nibbling on a piece, a remarkable look of sudden calm appearing as he tasted the fruity spread. Never would he admit it, but the toast reminded him of John for some odd reason and for some even odder reason, that made him feel at peace.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called. "Your brother's here!"

"Why did he not just come up here like he usually does?" Sherlock wondered aloud. Shaking his head, he called back to her, "Send him up!"

"Ah!" Mycroft sounded pleased. "You're both here. Splendid. You haven't told him, have you?" This question was directed to Sherlock

"No. He's being intolerable, though. Won't stop asking."

"Well, maybe if you told me what the bloody _hell _ is going on.." John started.

"Alright, now , enough bickering." Mycroft said. "Sit, Dr. Watson and we'll explain."

John did as was asked, though not without a few glances at the Holmes brothers. His instincts told him that something was very very wrong. Just what, he didn't know, but there was definitely a matter that must have been of importance, because why else would Mycroft be there?

"Well, as you should know, my brother has spent the past two years picking apart Moriarty's network." Mycroft began running his hands over his umbrella.

"Yes. I know that."

"One of them got away. A dangerous, sadistic brute."

"Who?" John asked, feeling a shiver of an all-too familiar feeling zolt through him.

"Goes by the name of Moran. Seb Moran. He was Moriarty's right-hand man, if you will." Mycroft went on. "Moriarty told him everything he knew of Sherlock."

"Is he in danger?" John glanced at the self-proclaimed sociopath. Would he lose him again?

"I'm not in danger." Sherlock looked into John's deep-coloured eyes. "I was Moriarty's to destroy."

"Then, who is Moran's?"

"I learnt," Sherlock said, as though John had not spoken, "that Moran was in charge of Moriarty's network and should it ever fall by my hand, Moran was to destroy me by taking what I hold most dear and..." Sherlock pasued, his face grim.

"What do you hold most dear? Mrs. Hudson? Your parents? Mycroft?" John guessed.

"No, no and _no_. And before you ask, not The Woman either." Sherlock answered.

"It's you, John." Mycroft explained. "The only one he would die for."

"It's why I came back. I can protect you and should Moran or one of his men come for you, I can complete the puzzle and wipe out Moriarty's network forever." Sherlock finished.

"Right." John mumbled. His vision was swimming, his heart was thumping and he didn't know what to think. "Won't you be in danger, Sherlock?"

"That's where the British government comes in."

"We will be keeping watch, John, don't worry."

"What about my job?"

"I'll be with you." SHerlock said.

"Oh, God."

"I told you he wouldn't like it." Mycroft murmured.

"Why not?"

"I'm going to be out of a job by Friday." John muttered to no one in particular. "Sherlock, surely I can go to _work _ by myself."

"He doesn't want to take the risk, and I agree with him." Mycroft said. "Though, do behave yourself, I don't believe John would appreciate becoming unemployed."

Realising he wasn't going to have a say in this matter, John sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Being protected by the Holmes brothers was going to be interesting.


	4. Working With John

"How long have you been divorced?"

The woman blinked, gazing anxiously at John. "What?"

"Sherlock.."

"You keep going to touch your ring finger and then looking surprised when you make contact with the skin as if you don't already know there's no ring on your finger. Of course it could be a broken off engagement, but given your age-"

"Sherlock!"

"She's over _fifty_, John!"

The woman glared at Sherlock. "My husband _passed away_!"

Sherlock was silent. A minute passed. Then; "When did he die? My guess, given this new information, is between five and..."

"Sherlock?"

"What _is_ it, John?"

"Get out."

* * *

Not for the first time that week, John wondered if Sherlock was trying his best to get John to quit his job so that he could keep a better watch over him at Baker Street. John knew Sherlock wasn't overly fond of the clinic, having branded it 'dull' after his first hour there. On the other hand, John knew Sherlock did enjoy deducing people.

John just wished he didn't have to deduce his patients.

After apologising yet again to the widowed woman, he briefly wondered about escaping Sherlock by using the conjoining door to the next room over and leaving through the fire exit. She was now outside. He hadn't caught sight of Sherlock. Maybe...

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere." John answered, turning sharply away from the door.

Next time he'd definitely make his escape.

* * *

Coming out of the shower, John could hear his phone ringing. Grabbing a towel and hurriedly drying with it, he threw on his dressing gown and went to the living room where he'd left it.

He didn't expect Sherlock to pick it up.

"Who's this?"

John went to Sherlock, arm outstretched, only for the taller man to ignore him.

"No, he can't meet you. Because I don't know you!"

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John tried to snatch his phone back, but the consulting detective turned away and continued talking to the poor person on the other end.

"He's fine. Yes. I'm not telling you that. Well, why would you need to know when his next day off is? Oh. Well, I doubt he wants to visit a patient on his day off. Goodbye."

John was speechless. For about five seconds. "How could you- Who was that?"

"Nothing to worry about, she only has a cold. She'll survive."

"Why did _you _ answer my _phone_? You never used to."

"Taking precautions, John. That could have been Moran."

"Oh, for-" John placed his hands on the back of his head and glared up at Sherlock. "You total prick."

"What?" Sherlock gazed confusedly down at John. "I'm only trying to keep you safe."

"No, you're being _smothering _ and _overbearing _ and..."

"Well, how do you expect me to be? There's someone after you. Someone dangerous."

"Just back off. Everywhere I go, I can almost guarantee that you're gonna be there."

"I can't do that, John."

"Look," John said, trying to keep calm. "I get that you're worried, I get that there's _someone _ out there, but I'm a big boy. I can look after myself."

Sherlock briefly glanced downwards and when he looked back at John there was a look in his light-coloured eyes that the doctor couldn't quite place. "I just want to keep you safe."

He sounded so vulnerable, so un-Sherlock-like, that John's annoyance melted away. He placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, and almost jumped when Sherlock's own arms shot out and grabbed him, hauling him into what must have been the tightest embrace he'd ever had bestowed upon him.

It was actually rather pleasant.

"You were safe before you met me." Sherlock whispered.

"I was an Army doctor in Afghanistan."

"You know what I meant. When you came back to England you didn't have anyone out to get you."

"You kept me safe. You did. You always did. I don't know if you realise it, but you kept me alive."

"I didn't want to leave you."

It was a repeat. John knew Sherlock hadn't wanted to leave. Sherlock knew John knew Sherlock hadn't wanted to leave. It was like a reassurance. Whether it was to him or to Sherlock, John couldn't guess.

Maybe it was both.

"I know you didn't." John told him.

This was a repeat too.

Sherlock pulled back and then rested his forehead against John's. "I have to keep you safe."

For a moment John was too taken aback by the current colour of Sherlock's eyes (which happened to be his favourite shade of blue) to answer. Then he pulled himself back together. "But, do you have to answer my phone?"

"Fine, I'll leave your phone alone. Mycroft's probably bugged it anyway." Sherlock conceded

"What?"

Sherlock smiled and pulled away. John felt a slight pang as he did, but ignored this sensation. At least his callers were safe from Sherlock.


	5. Missing

**Might I just say, I think we've all woke up and just wanted tea, and nothing else but, at one point in our lives.  
**

**Please let me know if this was enjoyed?**

* * *

At 6:50AM, John Watson woke up with a diabolical urge for tea. Going downstairs, he could see that his roommate was sleeping on the settee. Forgoing his need for the hot beverage, John went to pull the couch blanket, which was currenly pooled at Sherlock's feet, over the rest of the curly-haired man's body. Sherlock stirred and muttered something, but otherwise did not wake.

Filling up the kettle, John found himself looking over where Sherlock was still sleeping. Why he did so, he couldn't even guess, but he couldn't bring himself to stop.

Perhaps it was because Sherlock looked so peaceful. Perhaps it was to make sure he was still there. Maybe it was because he felt so weirdly happy to see him.

Opening the fridge, John sighed. They'd run out of milk again. Well, Sherlock definitely needed to sleep. In fact, he'd probably still be asleep when John came back.

The doctor was gone before the kettle boiled.

* * *

Sherlock blinked himself awake, hazily remembering his exhaustion last night...and his conversation with John. That was good. It was good he and John talked. Yes. Where was he? John was usually up by now and Sherlock didn't remember putting the blanket on himself.

He _certainly_ hadn't put the kettle on.

Sherlock bit his lip. He was being ridiculous. John had probably put the kettle on, saw he didn't look very warm and placed the blanket over him and then went back to bed. Still, it was best to be absoloutely certain. He went up the stairs and knocked on John's door. John didn't answer. He knocked again, louder. Still no answer. Feeling concerned, he opened the door.

John wasn't there.

A sick feeling of panic slammed into Sherlock and he looked in, hoping that John would be hiding behind the door, even under the bed.

He wasn't anywhere.

He looked in the bathroom, he looked in the kitchen, he even looked in his own room before searching the living room, before collapsing onto the settee and madly snatching up his mobile to call the one person he knew could find John.

"This had better be important, Sherlock. I'm rather busy, you see..."

"John's missing!"

A pause. Then Mycroft spoke again. "Tell me everything."

* * *

There were a lot of helicopters around, John noticed, swinging the Asda bag around. Wondering what for, he dug in his pocket for his key as Baker Street came into view.

* * *

Sherlock prowled around the flat, biting at his bottom lip worriedly. Where was John? Just where the _hell... _He stormed over to their large window, gazing at the streets below, worry replaced by a sense of increasing fury.

If Moran had found John and had him...

If Moran hurt John...

He'd kill him.

He wanted to be out there, looking for John, but _apparently_ it was best that he stay where he was just in case the doctor came back.

Sherlock hoped John would come back.

He shut his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. This stress would do no good for anyone. Logically speaking, it was more likely that John had gone out by himself and half the British Government were out looking for him (while the other half was barking orders at them). Just how John had managed to get past the agents keeping an eye on the door was anyone's guess.

Sherlock guessed that they'd been bored and uninterested.

He allowed his eyes to open, and peering through long eyelashes, he froze as he recognised the person below the window.

"John!" Sherlock knocked on the window.

John either didn't hear or was ignoring him. What was he doing? He was now talking on the phone. He'd placed Sherlock into panic mode and was now casually talking on the phone as if nothing was the matter.

Sherlock was not happy.

At least he had his blogger in his sights. John was stepping away from the door. Oh, God, he was going to end up having an elongated conversation with this person who had the worst sense of timing to ever be had by a living being. No, wait. Eyebrows drawn, shoulders tense as though they were holding back a shrug... so, John was confused. And from what Sherlock could see, there wasn't any sense of warmth or anything in John's expression that suggested he even knew this person.

Sherlock supposed John must have gotten a call from some insurance company. Yes, that would be it.

But why was he smiling?

Ah, now the phone was going. Finally John was heading back to the door. Not long now and John would be back here. Safe. Sherlock sighed a breath he'd not known he'd been holding and moved a little way back from the window. He could just about hear the jangling of the keys as they turned in the lock.

Then they stopped.

The door did not open.

Sherlock turned to go to the top of the stairs where he could see the door leading to outside. He waited at the top before calling, "John!"

No reply.

Panic clogged Sherlock's mind for several seconds, before he sprinted down the stairs and arrived at the door just in time to hear a loud bang.

It could've been anything, yes, but the fact that John had clearly been stopped from unlocking the door only for a loud bang to follow did not bode well. Wrenching open the door, Sherlock felt something inside himself shatter as he took in the fact that John Watson was nowhere in sight.

All that remained was a tiny pattern of several droplets of deep red liquid shining in the weak sunlight.


	6. Darkness

Mycroft watched as Sherlock paced around like a caged animal. He, too, felt worry at John's disappearance, but this quite obvious panic his brother was enduring wouldn't help at all.

"Sherlock."

"Shh!"

"Sherlock, sit down."

"Shut up, I'm trying to think!" Sherlock's pale hands were now grasping at his starkly contrasting ebony locks of hair. A clear sign of stress.

"You are panicking." Mycroft told him.

"Panicking? Of course I'm panicking! You'd be panicking too, if- just shut up!"

"If?"

Sherlock gave him a fierce glare and turned away. "Stop distracting me. My John's life could be hanging in the balance."

_'My John.' _"I see." Mycroft murmured. "Sherlock, listen-"

"No."

"Yes." Mycroft walked over to his younger sibling and took hold of his shoulders. Maintaining eye contact was always the best thing to do when his brother was panicked as he was now. It never failed to help soothe whatever worry he was feeling. It didn't fail now. "You cannot think when your mind is being corrupted by emotions. Calm yourself."

Sherlock pulled himself out of Mycroft's grip and made his way to where his violin rested on his chair. Picking it up, he stalked past his elder brother and into his bedroom. Moments later, the sounds of mournful strings filled the air.

* * *

The overwhelming darkness when John finally awoke wasn't the worst of it. It was cold. So very, very cold. Feeling slow and sore, he also became aware of the silence. It was _deafeningly _ quiet, wherever he was and he felt truly scared for a moment, before mentally telling himself to not start worrying now. At least he was alive.

Though would it always be a good thing that he was alive? Whoever saw fit to graze him with a bullet, certainly hadn't seemed to mind hurting him.

He told himself not to be scared.

At least Sherlock wasn't there. He would be safe in Baker Street. Yes, he would be safe.

He pulled himself up off the floor, wincing as his joints cracked and tense muscles protested the movement. Once standing, he made his way to the nearest wall, feeling the icy smoothness for anything that could be door-like. He had to find a way out.

_"I wouldn't do that, Doctor."_

John froze. This was undoubtedly a woman's voice. She sounded so familiar, though John couldn't think of how. "Who are you?"

_"You do know me, Doctor."_

"I genuinely don't know."

_"I am the reason Sherlock Holmes has been mother-henning you for the past fortnight."_

"You're Moran?"

She was chuckling. _"Very good. I can see why Holmes likes you so much."_

"What do you want with me?"

What she said next chilled him to the bone. _"I want to slowly destroy you, John Watson. Make Holmes watch as his other half dies."_

_'A dangerous, sadistic brute'. _Mycroft truly hadn't been lying. "Are you going to get Sherlock in here?"

_"No. Tempting as it is, I'd rather him see it onscreen. Adds to his feeling of helplessness as he watches you struggle and try to deal with the pain."_

"Why?"

_"Same reason he'd kill for you. He destroyed Jim. I'm destroying you. All's fair in love and war."_

"You and Moriarty?"

_"We loved each other dearly." _ Her voice had grown hard. _"And we both knew one day we'd rule the world. Until that bastard came into our lives with his ability to solve every crime that was thrown his way. Sherlock Holmes is going to pay. He's going to pay with _you_."_

Despite his attempts to fight the feeling, John felt a wave of terror slam into him, his heart beating wildly, breathing laboured. His legs buckled and he slid back to the firm ground, leaning against the wall.

He was going to die.

All he could do was wait for it.


End file.
